talkin’ self-indulgent blues

Artwork from Google

talkin’ self-indulgent blues

I’m talkin’ self-indulgent blues,

ramblin’ and a-rolling along,

on cobblestones,

here and there along the alleyways of this life,

seeking not much,

as such,

a few scattered smiles,

after all the miles,

more open roads, less clogged strife,

caravan-serais of hope,

of peace,

where the din briefly does cease,

where simple ways,

of bygone days,

seem cooler than the respite of the shade,

as ages pale,

and as words fade,

I’m still a-walkin’ alone,

flotsam and jetsam blurring my eyes,

as sand gets kicked and the dust flies,

my heart thrashed against cold stone,

while the mirage persists,

the promise of free skies,

still,

just there,

within reach,

slipping further into myself,

as the floodgates breach,

so don’t worry about me no more,

I’m still a-ramblin’ and a-rolling,

and know this too,

for it be true,

it is you,

who remains,

after moulted skin falls,

when the closing walls,

squeeze my straightjacket,

threatening to seal my fate,

into a vacuum-shrunk packet,

no, don’t worry about me no more,

my head is upright,

though my soul may be sore,

but I’m still a-ramblin’ and a-rollin’,

with you,

immersed deep in my core,

forever more … …

Artwork from Google

talkin’ why hope is important bluesy-blues

Art by Banksy

talkin’ why hope is important bluesy-blues … … …

… … … this scribble is about hope, that unweighable weighty word, often bandied about ritually, and thus its message, its voice, may be blunted by repetitive bluster, so i’ll be a-scribblin’ along, with all the gusto i may muster, since we’re talking about hope, without which the human race, us all, all of us, i dare say, would not cope, ’cause imagine an absence of something, you can’t put your finger on that feeling feeling, that oftentimes rocks at our souls, leavin’ our minds reelin’, yeah that’s right, but no propagandising today, though with me, at least, i can truly say, were it not for hope, that figment, blister on indifferent fates’ machinations, that belief, that burning in the pit of ones core, gnawing, gnashed teeth muttering, that all this pain too must eventually, pale, and that’s whats a-sometime the reason for us being heartful, and or hale, its hope, raw, deceptive, lyin’, corrosive, rusted but a-shineyed up, yeah that hope that keeps my heart pumping, its that hope that keeps me alive, and its that hope upon which, may all new flowers thrive …

Picasso’s Dove of Peace (from google)

talkin’ cynical self-absorbed lovey-dovey blues

Artwork from Google

talkin’ cynical self-absorbed lovey-dovey blues …

All those hazy moons ago, when we slept in each others arms, when we felt we were blessed, wearing those 24-carat gold matching lucky charms,

we who knew the paradise that lay ahead, the glitterati loving us – the perfect couple, who were hotter than blazing hot in bed.

All those sunshiney days of way back when, we kissed deep, our chakras aligned so in-tunely bloody zen, sinking into the obliviousness, the vacuum that was our entire universe

 then,

unaware of all else, of anyone around us as we breezed through life, floating past it all, lost in a marshmallow haze, as we sank deeper into our carefree daze.

Kisses and caresses, ensconced in our selfish crevasses, not giving a hoot, as long as you reeked of french perfume, as long as I showed-off my obscenely expensive silk suit,

as long as we valentined and new yeared ever on, blinded to the real world and all that was wrong, just so that we disappeared in each others eyes,

never sparing a thought about this, our earth, our world, as we trapezed by the multitudes, the throng,

where we should really, for heavens sakes, be simply human,

and to at least, at the very least, try to belong …

Artwork from Google